


Lord Finch's Lover

by VampirePam



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, First Time, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:36:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampirePam/pseuds/VampirePam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England - May, 1920.  After the Great War, former trained killer John Reese decides he's had enough of violence and becomes a live-in "gardener" for a series of wealthy men.  But sparks begin to fly when intelligence operative Harold Finch hires him for a job, unaware of his change in career, and the two must work together to stop a dastardly plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lord Finch's Lover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Salahra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salahra/gifts).



> Rated M because there will be hopefully be sex scenes later. Nothing in this chapter, though.

Life hadn't been easy for anyone after the war. The newspapers kept insisting they'd won, but it seldom felt that way. These days he was living in a world where men were shooting their neighbors for the food on their table, and women were begging the streets for a few handouts. In such a world, was exchanging his body for a little security really such a sin?

He'd gotten the introduction from one of his buddies in the service - said he'd gotten a plum offer from a rich lord to work as his "live-in gardner" (John had knocked around enough shady corners of the continent not to need elaboration). Only problem was, his buddy had a guy back home, had plans to open some sort of bed and breakfast in the country. Since John had done him a solid once, he decided it was time to return the favor.

It should have taken some persuading, at least some internal debate. In reality, he was just glad to have somewhere to go.

And so it began. John had thought he'd feel dirty, ruined even, but with everything he'd done in the war, it didn't even register. After spending years killing men, dragging them down into the mud and the muck, making one feel happy didn't merit a place on his shame scale, no matter how much society would have said otherwise.

Though there was never more than one client at a time, someone was always willing to pay for his particular skill set. When the Earl of Westmorland had been forced to exchange his services for those of an eighty year old Italian who specialized in the Tudor roses his mother so adored, John had soon found a soft place to land with the young heir to the Lancaster estate. The ones following seemed to all blur together; he had left his most recent appointment when his latest employer had reluctantly acquired a wife with a shrewd eye and an iron grip on the purse strings.

So it was that John Reese found himself leaning against a lamppost looking over the Thames, unemployed for the first time in a year, wondering what life had in store for him. As it turned out, the occupant of the black Rolls Royce winding its way around the corner would have something to say about that.

One of its tinted windows rolled down just enough for its occupant to remark, "You look a little lost, Mr. Reese." By this point, John was quite used to mysterious voices whispering mysterious things to him; so much so that it took him mere seconds to turn toward the car and put on his best "impress the client" smile.

It was charming, but mysterious, with more than a hint of danger. The kind of smile that said, "There's nothing I haven't done - want a taste?" The kind that promised torrid meetings in dark corridors, and moans of ecstasy muffled by silk sheets so the servants wouldn't hear.

"Let me guess," John said, leaning on the door of the car. Though the smile had taken practice, the gravelly, masculine timbre of his voice was God given (what God might have thought of his use of it, well, he didn't much give a damn). "You're just the fellow to help me find my way."

He didn't ask who the man was or how he knew his name. In what had become his profession, it paid to be discreet. It also paid to never let them know when he didn't have all the answers.

There was a slight pause before the window rolled the rest of the way down, revealing the darkened form and exposed hand of the car's occupant. "I hear from a friend of mine that you are a man who can...get things done," the man said. "Things that might well be...misunderstood by the general public."

"Well, I don't know about all that," John said, shifting ever so slightly so that his fingers were brushing the skin beneath the man's starched cuff. "But I am an excellent gardener - I specialize in rather...exotic tastes. Perhaps you have some...seeds in need of...planting?"

Another pause. The man withdrew his hand, and for a moment John thought he'd gone too far. But then the door swung open, and the hand returned, beckoning him inside with a swift jerk of the fingers. John smiled a little to himself. Looks like he still had the magic touch, after all.

As he ascended the steps of the Rolls with the elegant air of a man who had accustomed himself to riding in luxury automobiles, John caught his first real glimpse of the man he assumed would be his next employer. His first thought was that he didn't look the type.

Oh he seemed rich enough, if his clothes (and car) were any indication. They were of expensive materials, expertly matched and even more expertly turned out; yet they did not reflect the latest fashions. They spoke of a man who knew precisely who he was and saw no reason to change his appearance due to the caprices of fashion. He certainly did not seem the sort of man to engage a clandestine lover, let alone pick one up off the street.

"My name is Harold Finch," the man said, as his driver put the car into gear. "I trust you understand why that is all I wish to tell you about myself at this juncture."

"Of course," John said, flashing him the smile once more. Clearly this one had a fetish for secrecy; he made a mental note to remember that later. "John Reese. But then, you already knew that."

"I know quite a bit about you, Mr. Reese," the man said. He moved his gaze to intercept John's for the first time. John perceived in them a man who kept his emotions carefully in check; what lay beneath that polished exterior was truly anyone's guess. No, definitely not his usual sort of employer. "You come highly recommended."

"I'm pleased to hear that," John said. Ordinarily, he would have initiated physical proximity at this juncture, but something in his companion's manner had him holding back. Still, no need to turn off the charm completely. "I've never had any complaints."

Harold Finch tilted his head to the side, as if something in John's remark had puzzled him. Then the look was gone, and he was back to being all business. "I've arranged for you to have a meeting with my tailor. He will set you up with everything you need for the next few weeks."

"How generous of you," John said, unsurprised. By this point, he'd acquired a quite respectable wardrobe of high quality clothes of an extremely varied character; in a little loft in Soho, there were rows of Brooks Brothers suits flown in from America hung next to matador costumes that had been specially fitted for him in Spain and a truly impressive collection of undergarments. They did say the British loved eccentrics, and John had learned there was no eccentric quite like a rich eccentric.

At this point, the prospect of new clothes did not excite him nearly as much as the possibility that Harold's tailor might be a little more forthcoming about his personal details than the man himself was inclined to be. John prided himself on being able to size up a man within minutes of meeting him; it was one of the tools of his trade he relied upon the most. Yet as much as he had already gleaned about Harold, there was just as much that remained completely mysterious; John was determined this would not remain true for long.

A few minutes passed, and they were pulling up to a discrete, but posh Mayfair address. "Well, Mr. Reese," Harold said as the driver got out to open the door, "I'll leave you in Mr. Forzieri's capable hands."

"You're not coming?" John asked, surprised. Generally, the clients loved this part - playing dress up with their own, life size paper doll.

"There are some things that need to be dealt with before I can join you at the house this evening," Harold said. "I assure you, my presence is not required."

"Whatever you want, Harold," John said. His fingers brushed the soft wool of Harold's pants leg, just above the knee. "It's your show."

As he used Harold's leg as leverage to arise and depart from the car, John took the opportunity to murmur, "See you tonight." He wished he could've seen Harold's face at that moment, but since turning around definitely would have spoiled his exit, he made do with imagining it.

Inside, Mr. Forzieri turned out to be a distinguished Italian gentleman of indeterminable age, with a seemingly backless closet and a subtle twinkle in his eye. John hadn't even had the chance to utter a word of greeting before he found himself shoved in front of a three-paneled mirror.

"You are tall," Forzieri muttered as he measured John's inseam. "Very tall. This is good. The suits will hang well on you."

"Have Mr. Finch's previous...friends been shorter, then?" As far as information about his new employer went, John would take what he could get.

"Friends?" Forzieri laughed. "In the time I have known Mr. Finch, I have never known him to speak to me of any friends."

Clearly he was being a hint too discrete. "I meant the men...the ones that he brings to you for this sort of thing."

Forzieri leaned back, an eyebrow raised. "Mr. Finch has never brought anyone to me for, as you say, this sort of thing. I am his personal tailor."

Well, well, a first time customer. John supposed he shouldn't have been that surprised - he had thought something similar when they had met. The question now was what exactly had made him take the plunge.

Forzieri didn't talk much after that - perhaps sensing he'd let something slip - just went round and round John, measuring this, pinning that, before disappearing into the back for what seemed like hours and emerging with arms full of tailoring.

By the time John left, he had five new suits, one tuxedo, one gardener's uniform, and two bags he had strict instructions not to open without Harold present - just what exactly these contained, his mind had been turning over all afternoon.

A different driver (John suspected the previous one was Harold's personal chauffeur) picked him and his new wardrobe up and a couple hours later, they were turning off a dusty country road and into the driveway of a palatial country estate.

Accustomed as he was to grand, country living, John was still impressed. Wealthy was one thing; this level of old-fashioned grandeur spoke to old money, and lots of it. "More surprising by the second, Harold," John said quietly to himself as he followed the driver into the house.

The room he was shown to was modest, but homey - similar to the sorts of accommodations he appreciated when he was working. Silk sheets and gilded ceilings were fine for his working hours, but when granted a little time to himself, a comfortable chair and a good book was all he wanted in the world.

Now, to work. The first night was always the most important, and difficult, of any engagement - it was his mission to find out what the client wanted, then give it to him, all while never making it seem like anything was out of his control.

He looked through the suits - should he be the inappropriate gardener? The dashing man of mystery? In the end, he decided to err on the side of simplicity - a pair of grey slacks and a sky blue shirt, unbuttoned, to bring out his eyes.

As a quick glance at his watch confirmed the time at eight o'clock - Harold was bound to be home soon - he crept into the hallway to find the master bedroom. Fortunately for him, vast country mansions tended toward similar floor plans, and within minutes he had both located and concealed himself within what was plainly the master bedroom.

John would have taken the opportunity to look around a little more, but soon heard footsteps in the hallway. He had just enough time to throw himself onto the bed and recline back languidly before the door opened.

"Mr. Reese!" Harold exclaimed. "You're not supposed to be in here. Your room is at the other end of the hall."

Ah, so that was how Harold wanted it. John was only too happy to oblige. He slid off the bed and began to walk towards him. The walk had taken a few iterations to perfect, but he flattered himself that he had it mastered - slow enough that the client could enjoy however much of his body he happened to be showing at the moment, but with enough purpose to cast himself firmly in the role of heroic lover, consumed with passion.

Harold, meanwhile, backed up in pace with John's motion forward, stopping only when his back impacted the bedroom door with a thud.

John took advantage of Harold's startled glance backwards to close the distance between them and place his hands on either side of Harold's head on the door. "My room's down the hall. I'm not supposed to be in here."

He leaned down so his lips were only a few inches from Harold's ear before whispering, "Maybe you should punish me."

To his surprise, Harold ducked out from under his arm and scurried to the other side of the room. "Really, Mr. Reese, I believe there has been a grave misunderstanding!" He began compulsively straightening his vest, which had become rather rumpled by John's proximity to him. "Just what exactly do you think you're doing?"

Shit - what the hell had he done wrong? Even his first, clumsy attempts at playing Don Juan hadn't met with a response like this. Still, no reason he couldn't still salvage the job.

He leaned against the doorway and arched his back in such a way that his abdominal and pectoral muscles were highlighted to the greatest possible extent. "Whatever you want me to be doing."

This did not seem to assuage any of Harold's anxiety. Right, time to take charge. "You seem nervous, Harold. Let me guess - you've never done anything like this before." He took the sputtering noises Harold began to make as reluctant affirmation. "Here, I tell you what. I'll start, and you jump in when you feel up to it."

He unbuttoned his pants, but just when he began to slide a hand in, there was a loud, "No!" from the other side of the room. John stopped, frustrated. He'd played a lot of kinky games in his time, but he was damned if he knew how this resulted in anyone getting off.

"Mr. Reese, I do not know what you think you were brought here to do, but I assure you it is not that!" Harold began to pace back and forth in place, running a hand through the hair he had just finished returning to order. "Oh God, this is a nightmare, an absolute nightmare. But how could I have known? They assured me Ted Buckland was one of the best -"

John had been watching Harold's little meltdown with equal parts confusion and apprehension, until that point. "You don't mean Ted "Bucky" Buckland of the 14th Infantry?"

Harold spun to face him. "He's the one who recommended you for the job, Mr. Reese."

The pieces began to fit themselves together. John hadn't seen his former commanding officer in a good three years - no way he would have known about his little change of profession. Which meant...

"Well, if I won't be kissing you, I'm going to have a smoke," John said, drawing a pack out of his pants pocket.

"I wish you wouldn't," Harold said. He'd begun to nervously fasten and unfasten the buttons on his vest. "These curtains are eighteenth century damask."

"Is that the real job, then?" John flipped his cigarette lighter a few times around before defiantly lighting the one in his mouth with it. "Interior decorator? Gotta say, you seem more the type."

"This was clearly a mistake," Harold said primly. He was still watching John warily, as if he were some sort of tiger he'd unwittingly let loose in his bedroom (which, John had to admit, was rather the effect he had been going for). "My driver will return you to your lodgings in the morning, along with reimbursement for your troubles."

"What, all that foreplay, and I don't even get to know what the job is? That's bad form, Harold." John wasn't entirely certain why he cared all of a sudden. If he was here on Bucky's recommendation, it was basically a guarantee the job would be a messy one, the kind they gave him in the old days. Nary a weekend jaunt to Paris in the lot, he was quite sure.

"I warn you, if you want me to kill someone, you're out of luck." He blew a stream of smoke across the room, stubbed out his cigarette, and grinned lasciviously, to emphasize his point. "As I'm sure you've surmised, I'm in rather a different business now."

"Yes, you have made that extremely apparent," Harold said. To John's amusement, he crossed the room and poured himself a glass of scotch. "I can't see why you care, but for the record, I'd brought you here to prevent fatalities, not cause them."

"Been a long time since anyone's tried that line on me," John said with a short laugh. "I'll bite - how?"

"Look, as I said, it doesn't matter now," Harold said. "I can assure you I will not be putting the success or failure of this mission in the hands of a...a damned gigolo!"

John could feel the anger begin to simmer in his stomach. He should have known this was coming. "I'm not ashamed of my profession, Mr. Finch. Happiness is in short supply these days, and for once in my life, I'm a supplier of it. As far as I'm concerned, that's a damn good thing, and anyone who thinks otherwise...well, they can go fuck themselves. You included. I'll see myself out."

"Wait!" John was surprised to feel Harold's hand curl around his wrist. His grip was unexpectedly strong. "I'm sorry. That was unforgivably rude, and believe me, I am the last person qualified to judge someone for how he conducts his affairs." John stilled in his departure - at the very least, Harold seemed sincere in his apology.

"This mission," Harold went on. "I cannot stress enough how vital it is that it succeeds." Their eyes met, and John felt his breath catch. For the first time their meeting, he was actually able to read something in those implacable eyes of Harold's - pain. Though he could discern little else, one thing was certain - for Harold, there was much more at stake than national security.

"And Bucky said I was your man?" John asked, his eyes flitting briefly down to where Harold was still clutching his wrist.

"Yes," Harold said, quickly dropping John's wrist and resuming the nervous wringing motion with his hands. " 'The best he'd ever seen,' to be strictly accurate. And quite frankly, that's exactly what I need right now."

"I'd match your current...going rate," Harold added quickly, looking a little embarrassed. "It won't be easy work, and I wouldn't want you to feel you were doing it at a loss."

"On a government salary?" John snorted. By now, he had become an expert in 'hard to get.' "Trust me when I say there's no way you could afford me."

"This particular project has an...alternate revenue stream," Harold said. The inscrutability was back with a vengeance. "Whatever you need is yours. Cost is no object."

"Well, well." John grinned again. "There may be hope for you yet, Harold." He leaned against what he was sure was an antique table and lit another cigarette, for the simple pleasure of watching Harold fight his urge to tell him to put it out.

He was tempted - though by what he wasn't entirely sure. Sure, there was something thrilling about 'cost is no object,' but it wasn't as if he hadn't heard it before. Rich men in need of sex were wont to say all manner of things.

He took a long drag of the cigarette and thought further. Maybe it was Harold. It had been far too long since John had met with anything he could describe as a challenge, and this man was certainly that. He couldn't shake the image of the way he'd looked minutes earlier, when he'd told John of the importance of the mission. And that look in his eyes...the story behind it was something he desperately wanted to hear.

"What the hell, I'll do it," John said, after indulging in a leisurely smoke. He'd certainly done dumber things for worse reasons. "Could do with a change of pace."

"You don't even know what 'it' is yet," Harold pointed out.

John laughed again. "Does it really matter? Half of what you'd tell me would be censored, bureaucratic bullshit and the other half would be rendered obsolete within a week. That's the thing about government work, Harold - it never really changes."

"Very well," Harold said. John would have sworn that he looked pleased. "How exactly would you like to be compensated?"

"In the morning, Harold," John chastised, making his way toward the door. "You always discuss payment in the morning. Spoils the mood, otherwise - don't you know that?"

Harold looked away as what John would have sworn was the slightest of blushes crept up his cheeks. "As you wish. I trust you can find your way back to your room."

"I think I'll manage," John said. "Unless you'd like to come along and tuck me in, of course."

Harold nudged John into the hallway with the edge of the door before shutting it with what John would have sworn was a bemused, "Good night, Mr. Reese."

Well, well, well. He didn't know what he was in for with this job, but one thing was for sure - neither did Harold Finch.

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a crack fic for a friend, and has spiraled intensely since. God knows where it'll end up.


End file.
